


Escape

by Sheela



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Burns, Diving, Episode: s03e22 Play With Fire, Episode: s03e23 Inside the Box, Gen, PTSD, Scars, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-03
Updated: 2006-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheela/pseuds/Sheela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Play with Fire/Inside the Box. Greg just needs to escape for a little while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escape

The walls are closing in on him, he can feel it. Feels the pressure from all sides, feels the extra gravity that drags down his arms like a ton of stones and glues his feet to the ground when all he wants to do is run away. Feels the smell of chemicals tickling his nose, enough to irritate but not enough to bring a relieving sneeze. Feels the ringing in his ears, that's bordering on throbbing. Feels the tension collecting in the centre of the room, getting ready to burst into a shockwave of heat and pain again, any second now. Feels the friction of his clothes on his sensitive back, an eternal itch he daren't scratch. Feels his own scars. Feels his hands shaking without looking at them.

OoIoO

* * *

One final day the shaking gets so bad, he drops a test tube – mercifully an empty one, not containing any vital evidence. But as he watches the glass shatter across the floor, he knows he can't take it any longer.

Grissom grants his request for a week of unpaid leave without hesitation. He doesn't ask why – doesn't have to. The supervisor just takes one look at his hands. They are shaking.

"You remember what I said, don't you? If you need me, I'm here. I meant it."

He just nods and leaves, the taste of goodbye sour in his mouth.

OoIoO

* * *

He's not even sure what he's doing until he finds himself at the airport, buying a ticket for the next flight to California, with only a small backpack in his hands.

He feels like twitching and twisting and fidgeting but he doesn't. During the whole flight he hardly moves a muscle and doesn't say a word. Doesn't touch his pre-packed lunch and drinks only one cup of plain water. When they land, he goes and rents a car, doesn't see which brand or colour, and just drives.

He should ring his family, let them know he's nearby, should meet them for a lunch at least or something, he really should. But he doesn't.

He just drives until he gets to the coast. Then he sits and watches the ocean until the afternoon turns into evening and then into night. He sleeps at a cheap motel, even though for him it's day time, and gets up in the morning – the real morning – for the first time in months. Walks into one of the tourism hot spots and books a diving day trip. He knows he pays far too much for it; knows, but doesn't care.

The equipment they give him is old and dingy; the bottles dented, the plastic glass of the mask scratched and the mouthpiece full of strangers' bite marks and DNA. He knows his own gear would be in top condition, less than one hour away, stored in his parents' basement. But doesn't drive out and get it. He just gets on the boat and fights to keep from fidgeting on the trip to the diving site.

The neoprene diving suit is slightly too tight whereas his own fitted him like a second skin. But he relishes in the tightness, enjoys the pressure on his back that kills off the itching. Finally, finally he gets into the sea.

And it is a different world.

Through the carefully mixed air from his mouthpiece he can finally breathe. Gravity has now power over him out here; all he does is float. The slightest flap of his flippers is enough to gently propel him forward if he wants to, further into the blue.

The only pressure here is in his ears, stemming from the water above his head, and it has replaced the ringing, leaving him in blessed silence with only the noise of his own breathing for company.

There is no threatening heat, only a blanket of coolness. Cool and quiet and blue all around him. And it is here, right in the middle of the blue with the sun glittering on the surface above him, that he finally finds his peace.

OoIoO

* * *

He goes back underwater five more times and spends the rest of his time just sitting on the beach. On his last day, his last trip into the blue sea, he buys a cheap disposable underwater camera on a whim and just snaps photos of anything he sees.

Then it is time to go back. Back to work, back to the lab.

OoIoO

* * *

Nick is the first to greet him back at the beginning of the night shift. And trained observer that he is, the dark haired man immediately spots the newest addition to the lab. A small framed photograph standing next to the mass spectrometer. The picture shows a bright yellow and red striped fish, part of an outstretched hand, a pale blur where a finger partly blocked the lens and a lot of blue. Nothing's quite in focus but it's all very vibrant and colourful.

"Hey, I like it." Nick says.

Greg smiles and looks down at his hands. They're both rock steady.

"Yeah, me, too."

 

fin


End file.
